Our Beating Souls

We died this journey, to arise as healthy, that forbidden light; to grip for swans, this chaotic pit, to frequent limbo; this mystic tomb, our wombs as souls, this place for intimacy; as borne to volts, infused by spirits, as long to live intuition. I crave a soul, that warm in essence, to plague our goodbyes; this second for closure, to retreat for good, as awakened to mischief; that ark of silence, this arc of hellos, that fire by flame this person; to see regrets, as shadowed forever, this thing he couldn’t fix; but truth to lights, this tacit affair, to have spoken but once: that ink in blood, that want for volts, to see as to adjudge. I know a soul, as smart as silence, to feel a bit numb; for life is aches, as plus to joys, this balance seeming inconsiderate; at times for music, this inner Beethoven, as alive through, Immanuel; this welkin grin, fused from beneath, at woes concerning those secrets; this monk by mind, that seldom we come, to have experiences daily. It charges our brains, to flood our egos, as we must remain humble. It pushes for grandeur, as pride that fall, this casual ink splattered upon psyches; to walk so gently, as seen by few, this wealth at goods her scent; while dead inside, this courageous act, to deceive a colony of coworkers: that inner gem, imbuing souls, while one hates our guts; this broken person, this song of souls, that grated heartbeat; to sing of love, this daughter as solid, to needs this want for solace: our torn affects, that change by lights, to affect our cosmos; this inner angst, that shallow response, this person suffering through voices; to claim perfection, this earth of gods, while disappointed dearly. It couldn’t be life, this measure by wisdom, to realize this common thread; as painted blandly, this puppy in bars, as to entertain these ghosts; that ecclesial guilt, to conquer this art, as refusing to succumb; where this is self, as one ostracized, this needs for guidance. I heard a swan, to condemn such actions, as to wonder of this deep infection; to ask of souls, those probing questions, as to hear—“I merely said so”: but this is life, to learn so early—our sun remains at a distance; for this is passion, to reach unto closure, while hearts remain aloof; this casual sin, as was this night—that day it came to surface: this inner storm; that talking soul; that secret concerning spirits.